The last exhale was a recent meditation that brought a sudden stillness to my ever-chaotic life. This meditation asked me to visualize the moment of taking my last breath, the last exhale. Morbid as it may sound, I found it empowering. In that final breath, all I could see were the faces of those I loved dearly; all other worries vanished effortlessly. Art and poetry were the only other things I yearned to fit into that moment. I imagined an enormous piece of my painting depicting my landscape hanging in the room where I take my last breath.
I fear that my writing will come across as essays of turmoils. I often chuckle at myself, thinking, ‘Ah, me and my never-ending mental turmoils.’ While there’s some truth in that, I try to extract joy from life’s mundane moments as much as possible. Looking back, I find my most cherished moments of happiness in the recent past have been around little birds, trees, and art.
My new favourite term is survival iceberg. Most of us are like icebergs floating in the sea of existence, showing only a teeny bit of ourselves to the world. Based on this tiny view, it's wild how we choose, judge, and decide which direction to float in life.
I was a hidden iceberg for most of my life. I married early in my 20s and was without a voice. I was a puppet of conformity, even bearing a different name and identity shaped by my ex. Finding my voice and identity has been a long road from there to here. A small voice within still asks if I deserve to have a voice, a self, at this age.
I was shy and unsure in this sea of icebergs. Only when I turned 30 did I reveal a glimpse of my terrain. By my late 30s, I understood which parts were okay to show to the world and my chosen family/friends. As more and more of me became visible, I was sometimes told I thought, shared, and wrote too much, assumed too much, that I lived mostly in my head. Among these well-meaning people, hardly any were curious to ask me questions. Questions can be beautiful gifts if it is coming from a place of curiosity for your loved ones. Questions that seek to understand. Answers aren’t what people seek from others.
I have recently started a drawing-intensive spring term course at the Royal Drawing School. Walking there, to be among a young and talented batch, I wondered if I even belonged. But I remind myself, ‘I am talented; I have come here to learn and have fun. Throw off the age bias out of the window. It isn’t frivolous to pursue something you love’ The peace I derive from art is unexplainable. I hope to someday share it by creating art circles for people like me.
As I near my mid-40s, I am confronted with the intricate dance of societal expectations, where the threads of selflessness, professional identity, authenticity, and multifaceted roles demand a seamless blend. In her book, The Ethics of Care, Carol Gilligan once remarked, ‘The hardest times for me were not when people challenged what I said, but when I felt my voice was not heard.’ This resonates deeply as I balance the expectation of selflessness against the need for self-care. I have to remind myself that having a voice and the ability to express myself isn’t a crime. Expressing needs, desires, and goals aren’t litanies of survival.
The ethics of care explored in Carol Gilligan’s seminal work is fascinating. It sheds light on the voices and experiences of women, which have historically been marginalized in moral philosophy. This book goes beyond traditional ethical theories by emphasizing the importance of interconnectedness, the critical role of emotions in moral decision-making, responsiveness to others’ needs, and the value of care and empathy. These themes challenged me to pause and reflect on the often-unseen dimensions of ethical reasoning that prioritize human relationships and emotional intelligence over abstract principles. While I’m tempted to delve deeper into these interesting themes, particularly the interconnectedness and history, I recommend reading Gilligan’s work directly for those interested in exploring further.
In the professional realm, Virginia Woolf’s assertion that ‘A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction’ speaks to the struggle for independence and personal space amidst career expectations. I must say, it is an interesting age to navigate when middle-aged women are leaving the workforce. A room of our own is so important. It doesn’t matter if one is writing, creating, or taking care of the household. On a side note, I am looking for work after this course finishes. If you know of any interesting projects, do drop me a message.
The observable tip of my proverbial iceberg is way less than the standard ten per cent :), as the multitude of worries and causes to fight to live beneath the visible realm. But the seeds I sowed in the last 5-6 years through observation, awareness, counselling, therapy, journaling, affirmations, self-assessments, different meditations, and writing are showing their first shoots. I am morphing into a cylindrical iceberg beneath the surface. A fun fact is that stable icebergs are cylindrical in shape, while the pointy ones are often fragile. Here is to becoming a stable and bold iceberg.
I wonder if we tap enough into nature for ways of being and leading a life with poignant resilience. Maybe we need to learn from nature, shedding our prejudices and biases like trees do in winter. Have you noticed how barren the trees look in winter? There is still so much beauty and acceptance that exudes from them. How beautiful would it be to collectively say, ‘Amen, Sawubona,’ encouraging each other in the yearly communion of letting go to embrace another spring despite our darkness? Sawubona is a Zulu greeting. It means, “I see you, you are important to me, and I value you”.
So, in this winter of rising, I am letting go of the feeling that I need permission to express myself. I am shedding my fears, traumas, unhealthy relationships, and doubts. I whisper Sawubona to myself.
I will rise with my myriad selves, my oddities, sensibilities, inner child, wild side, and creative self. I am ready to embrace the negative spaces around me, as Keats wrote about negative capability and its relation to self. I’ve been too caught looking inward, failing to realize that these grey spaces around me are crucial too.
There’s a meme, an adult version of ‘Let It Go,’ that I sometimes watch for fun. I’m singing it loud in my head, perhaps as advice to myself. I need to live with exuberance, as Ask Polly writes. I love the definition that she wrote,
“EXUBERANCE is vulnerability and wild hopes and boisterousness and longing. Exuberance isn’t following one strict road map forward, chiding yourself every second of the day for not doing it right. Exuberance is waking up in the morning and saying, “I’ll try new things. I’ll be good to myself. I’ll listen to my needs. I’ll reach out and make real connections with the people I trust.” Exuberance is honesty and willingness. You don’t have to be better to be exuberant. You don’t have to be successful or even solvent to be exuberant.”
I am ready to welcome the stage of life where I hold close the loves who matter despite the phases each of us finds ourselves in, the blank canvases, these imperfect lines as I continue to emerge with exuberance from beneath the surface.
I was thinking about what poems I should include. Here are a few that I thought would fit in here :)
Warning by Jenny Joseph When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter. I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit. You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go Or only bread and pickle for a week And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes. But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children. We must have friends to dinner and read the papers. But maybe I ought to practise a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple. A Woman Speaks by Audre Lorde Moon marked and touched by sun my magic is unwritten but when the sea turns back it will leave my shape behind. I seek no favor untouched by blood unrelenting as the curse of love permanent as my errors or my pride I do not mix love with pity nor hate with scorn and if you would know me look into the entrails of Uranus where the restless oceans pound. I do not dwell within my birth nor my divinities who am ageless and half-grown and still seeking my sisters witches in Dahomey wear me inside their coiled cloths as our mother did mourning. I have been woman for a long time beware my smile I am treacherous with old magic and the noon's new fury with all your wide futures promised I am woman and not white I loved this one shared by Joseph Fasano today.
Each note I've played in this symphony of life, from the echoes of conformity to the melodies of self-discovery, composes a unique harmony. It's in the acceptance of every colour of my being, from the shadowed greys to the vibrant hues, that I stand in front of a blank canvas rich with possibility. In the garden of existence, every season and every age has its beauty, and now, I await spring with open arms, ready to paint my days with the exuberance of being unapologetically me.
Reflection for you :
Are there any 'negative spaces' and uncertainties in your life that are disguised as opportunities for growth and self-discovery? What stops you from smelling the coffee?
Sawubona to you :)
feel goods from the past two weeks :
I enjoyed reading Wandering Souls by Cecile Pin based on a fictional story that felt so real about a Vietnamese refugee.
A beautiful read by my dear friend Tanya on the Anatomy of a Hug. When did you last hug a friend, a family member, or a stranger? Last week, I saw a woman crying quietly in the tube. I wanted to go and give her a hug. I think a hug is like a warm cup of tea on cold winter morning :)
I love
deeply meditative and reflective image pilgrimage. I enjoyed reflecting on a recent post: As I have loved you. I want to have a space like Image Pilgrimage someday with my art.